Timofei Osipovich continues to speak, his hands moving to give emphasis to his words. The koliuzhi are silent. Finally, the man in the other canoe shouts something.
Timofei Osipovich shrugs and then nods to the carpenter Ivan Kurmachev. He steps up beside John Williams. Folded in his arms is a black-green greatcoat. It’s Kolya’s.
Timofei Osipovich addresses the koliuzhi again but whatever he says is useless. The koliuzhi remain unconvinced. Finally, the koliuzhi in the other canoe snaps at him. Timofei Osipovich sighs heavily and orders Ovchinnikov, “Get the broken one. They won’t know any better.”
Ovchinnikov fusses in his bundle and pulls out a musket. Nothing would indicate it’s broken. He lays the musket in his extended arms and takes his place beside John Williams and Ivan Kurmachev.
The koliuzhi exchange glances, then lift their paddles. Our canoe pushes away from the bank and turns into the current.
“Stop,” cries my husband.
“Stop!” I cry. “No!”
We stop. The canoes are pulled back to the riverbank. But we’re a sazhen or two farther downstream on the opposite bank.
Don’t they want what we have to offer? Why not? They can’t possibly know the musket is broken, so it must be something else.
“Let me go!” I plead. I point back upstream to where my husband stands with the others. “Paddle! Come on, paddle.” I mime for them, an invisible paddle in my hands. “Please!” But we remain where we are.
“Give them the muskets,” my husband screams. “I command you. Now!”
“That would be foolish,” says Timofei Osipovich.
“I want my wife released. Give them the four muskets,” he insists.
“My dear navigator, as you well know, we have only one good musket for each man. We’ve not one single tool to repair them if anything should break. They’re all we have to save us.”
“We have plenty of guns,” shouts my husband. “We don’t need one for every single man.”
“Maybe you’re right,” says Timofei Osipovich coolly. “But if we give them four guns, they’ll use them against us. Maybe even tonight. Who would you like to see killed first by our own weapons? Him?” He points to the carpenter Kurmachev. “Or him?” He points to John Williams whose face turns even paler.
“Stop!” cries my husband. “You go too far.”
“Forgive me. I will disobey your order.”
My husband runs and plants himself before Kurmachev. “Give me your musket. Give it to me.” Kurmachev squeezes his musket to his chest. His old face is knotted in despair.
“If any man follows our navigator’s commands,” says Timofei Osipovich, “I’ll leave. I’ll get in the canoe with Madame Bulygina and join the koliuzhi. You can fend for yourselves until you find the Kad’iak.”
Kurmachev doesn’t move.
Nikolai Isaakovich faces John Williams. “Give me your musket. I command you.” His voice is hoarse with the threat of tears. But the American is defiant. He looks at Timofei Osipovich and waits.
“A person’s life and liberty are the most precious things on earth,” says Timofei Osipovich. “We have no wish to lose them. We have spoken.”
Four muskets stand between me and freedom. Four. How many muskets did we senselessly destroy and toss into the ocean when we abandoned the brig—while we packed another fold of cotton and another string of beads? “Give them what they want! Please!” I shout.
“Be quiet, Madame Bulygina. Your words only make things worse,” says Timofei Osipovich. My husband buries his face in his hands. My heart breaks, but his tears are worthless to me right now. Why doesn’t he do something? Not a single word passes his lips. No reprimand for the crew who cling to their muskets, nor for the prikashchik whose insolence would earn him severe punishment from the chief manager if he knew. I’m not worth four muskets. My life and liberty are much less precious than any of theirs.
A crow calls out twice from downstream. Its squawking voice carries through the trees.
Timofei Osipovich speaks to the koliuzhi, but they don’t let him finish. They twist their paddles and the canoes respond. The current pulls us downriver, back toward the houses and the ocean.
My voice is as loud as thunder as I wail into the trees. If I survive now, I’ll never let them forget this betrayal. They’ll never forget this day, how they chose their freedom over mine and how they abandoned me for the sake of four muskets.
I jump from the canoe when it touches shore. “Maria! Yakov!” I call as I run, my skirt tangled in my legs. “Yakov!”
They’re standing when I burst through the doorway.
“What happened to you?” Maria cries.
“I thought we’d never see you again,” says Kotelnikov.
“We’re never getting out of here! Never!” I sob. “I hate them all!”
Yakov nudges Maria, and she puts her arm around me. She awkwardly pats my back, and then, with her fingers, pinches the edges of my torn sleeve together and holds it closed. I fold in to her, and put my arms around her shoulders. She’s so tiny but I let her support me like a mother would support her daughter.
“What happened, Madame Bulygina?” Yakov says.
I tell them everything—from the canoes, to the arrival at the riverbank, to the nankeen cotton, Nikolai Isaakovich’s greatcoat, and the four muskets. From Timofei Osipovich’s defiance, to the crew’s submission. From the koliuzhi’s refusal to bend from their demands, to my husband’s relinquishment of his command. When I finish, I press my face into the crook of Maria’s arm. My shoulders shudder. I know I should show more courage, but I can’t restrain my despair any longer.
We’re offered food, but I can’t eat. Maria tends to the eyebrow man, while I lie on the mat and cry until I fall asleep, exhausted. Late in the afternoon, Kotelnikov calls us over to a bench in the corner. The koliuzhi watchmen turn their heads from the doorway as we cross the house to him, but no one stops us.
“We need a plan,” Kotelnikov starts.
“What for?” says Maria.
“We need a plan to get back with the others. Before they leave.”
“They won’t leave! They have to wait for us,” Maria cries. “Don’t say such foolish things!”
When they hear her raised voice, the koliuzhi watchmen peer at us.
“I think the negotiations are not finished yet,” Yakov says. “The crew shouldn’t move until they are—or until the worst of winter has passed. It would make no sense.”
“But Yakov,” I say, “it’s no longer a matter of sense or no sense. Timofei Osipovich won’t give them any muskets—and no one has the courage to confront him.” It saddens me to think how quickly the others aligned themselves with Timofei Osipovich and against my husband, and how easily my husband then capitulated. “What kind of negotiation is that?”
“The kind that takes a long time,” Yakov says.
“We’re fools to think these negotiations will come to an agreeable conclusion, let alone any conclusion,” says Kotelnikov. “The koliuzhi are playing games. If we were to give them four muskets, they’d turn around and demand four more. They’re unreasonable.”
“What’s unreasonable is offering them less than what we were willing to give for a sea otter pelt—and expecting them to hand over the commander’s wife,” says Maria.
“No. Circumstances are different,” counters Kotelnikov. “The rules have all changed. We must act while we’re strong and the snow’s not deep.”
“You’re wrong,” says Yakov. “Now, more than ever, we need to be patient. Let the negotiation continue. I predict that in one or two days, we’ll be released, and then we can be on our way—less perhaps a musket or two.”